


Apprehension

by BashfulBunny (Aequoreavictoria)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Captain John Watson, Complete, Doctor John Watson, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, John has a short fuse, John is a Bit Not Good, Kidnapping, M/M, Medical, Mercenary John Watson, Non-Graphic Violence, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Road Trips, Romance, Sherlock is impressed, Thriller, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 14,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoreavictoria/pseuds/BashfulBunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story is based on an anonymous prompt from the Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme.  Thank you wonderful and imaginative prompter! </p><p>"John and Sherlock have never met and don't know each other. For some reason John kidnaps Sherlock (maybe he thinks he's working for good people, while in fact they are bad and lie to him; he's got an order to kidnap Sherlock Holmes and deliver him to somebody. John himself isn't a bad person though). John is protective. When he realises that he, in fact, has done a really bad thing (and was lied to, depending on the scenario), he saves Sherlock (from his employers perhaps) and wants to take him back where he'd taken him. But he won't be able to get rid of Sherlock easily, or at all for that matter. Sherlock won't go. </p><p>They are still themselves (John is a soldier and a doctor (who probably ended up hired by bad people after Afghanistan; after all, he needs danger and action and they need cannon fodder), and Sherlock is still... well, Sherlock).</p><p>+ a lot of danger, adventures and falling in love."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters are short because the story was originally posted in a format suitable for livejournal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Extraordinary Rendition"  
> The process by which a country seizes a person assumed to be involved in terrorist activity and then transports him or her for interrogation to a country where due process of law is unlikely to be respected.  
> Example: "On November 4, 2009, an Italian judge convicted 22 suspected or known CIA agents....delivering the first legal convictions in the world against people involved in the CIA's extraordinary renditions program."  
> ...............................

“I don’t do extraordinary renditions.” The stocky blond man’s tone was emotionless, as was his expression. 

“We’ll double your compensation.” The dark-haired man behind the desk studied his contractor. 

Watson’s expression didn’t change. “I still don’t do renditions,” he said. He folded his arms across his muscular chest and altered his stance slightly; boots firmly planted on the floor and no longer at ease. “I provide security. That’s it. If you don’t have work for me, I’ll take my skills elsewhere.” Watson shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.”

Graves, his liaison officer, stood and walked around to the front of his desk to lean back against it. “Look Watson, we are in a tight spot here. The subject is well insulated, that’s why our client has approached us for assistance. They usually do their own work but they’re having trouble with this one. You are our best contractor. We need you on this. Time is running out. Blackburn is almost finished his work and is about to be cut loose by QAT.”

Watson’s posture stiffened. For the first time Graves saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes. And it wasn’t a nice one. “The target is working with QAT?” 

Graves knew when he was on to something. “Yes. A brilliant young chemist gone wrong, very wrong; providing formulas for undetectable explosives to a terrorist organization kind-of-wrong.”

“As if you care what’s right or wrong.” Watson’s voice was harsh. But his next words were even harsher, “Alright. I’ll do it.”

Graves raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. “Good," he said. “Here is James Blackburn's file. You have forty-eight hours to apprehend and transfer him to our client. Get in touch with me when you have him and I'll provide you with the coordinates.” Graves added, “You will have to move fast to get to him before QAT does. Our firm can’t bill if the package is delivered in small pieces.”


	2. Chapter 2

Watson accepted the file and turned to exit the office with barely a nod to Graves. Graves shrugged and dismissed him from his mind almost immediately: John H. Watson M.D.; Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; Honourable Discharge, Diagnosis PTSD − was a cold fish. But as long as he performed for the firm, Graves couldn’t have been less interested. 

Once out of Graves’ office, John walked down the hall, his slight limp showing but hardly noticeable to those passing him. He found an empty briefing room not far away and sat down to review his target’s file. 

Opening the folder John began to study the black and white photos it contained. Other than a one page profile of Blackburn, the only other content of the folder was a secured USB flash drive which John knew would contain the detailed information he would need to apprehend the subject. 

James Blackburn was a striking looking man. He had a head of dark curly hair worn longer than was currently fashionable, a long face with unusually high and prominent cheek bones and strangely bright eyes and an intense gaze, noticeable even in a black and white photo. 

He clearly had expensive taste in dress, John’s lips twitched without humour; the pretentious wool overcoat with the turned up collar would have rung in at at least £1000 and the designer leather shoes likely at twice that amount. The man was hardly low profile.

The surveillance footage on the flash drive confirmed John’s initial impression of James Blackburn. Head and shoulders above everyone around him, Blackburn moved through London with an arrogant stride, often staring down his nose at someone, or something, that caught his attention. He was strongly built with broad shoulders and long legs. His height and weight, however, didn’t concern John. John knew he would be more than equal to subduing the man in a fight. However, a fight was not an option in the context of an apprehension of the sort John was hired to carry out. Speed and silence would be an absolute necessity, so John would have to rely heavily on the element of surprise and, if necessary, a sedative injection. 

John moved on in the file to the overview of his target’s habits and routine. John frowned. The man kept extremely erratic hours. He could be found almost any time of the day or night at his lab, which was at the London headquarters of British Chemical. Blackburn seemed to have free run of the place, coming and going as he pleased. Company security was very lax in the case of James Blackburn; they obviously considered him no security threat. BC had numerous lucrative contracts with the British military to develop everything from new food preservatives to jet fuel additives. Unfortunately for BC, Blackburn was using his spare time in the lab to develop explosive materials for foreign terrorists.

Extensive research had already been conducted on Blackburn, presumably by the parties who had failed to apprehend him up to this point. Obviously the man was extremely intelligent and wary to have eluded capture for more than three months, the length of time they’d been trying to intercept him. John’s expression was grim when he finally rose from his seat and made his way to the basement of the building and to his assigned equipment locker. Blackburn’s hard work and dedication to the cause of terror, pain and death would come to an end tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gift for Megabat.

John did not have the time to set up Blackburn’s interception the way he would have liked. Under different circumstances he would have taken as much time as required to create a careful plan with back-up strategies to manage all the possible risks. Never-the-less, John had the resources, and more importantly, the skills and the confidence required to succeed under less than ideal circumstances and so was able to set up quickly what he considered to be a solid plan to capture Blackburn. Within twelve hours of receiving his file, John was ready to apprehend his target. 

Three o’clock in the morning found John waiting for Blackburn to exit the after-hours Chinese restaurant that the young scientist often frequented on his way home after late nights of work in his BC lab. As Blackburn emerged from the restaurant, before he had time to step out onto the pavement, still in the dark alcove of the entrance of the now closed business, John was pressing the muzzle of an automatic pistol against his neck, where it was hidden from view under his cashmere scarf, and forcing Blackburn into the front seat of a waiting vehicle – to all appearances just a friend helping a mate out with a ride home after perhaps one too many drinks.

At the touch of the gun and the sound of John’s quiet voice ordering him to get into the car, Blackburn froze, but only for a moment. After the brief hesitation he cooperated without protest, to John’s surprise - although targets were always somewhat unpredictable in their responses. Blackburn slid obediently into the front passenger seat and lowered his head to his knees when ordered to do so. He was still and silent as John secured his wrists behind his back and, keeping his weapon to Blackburn’s head, accessed the driver’s seat using the back passenger door and climbing between the seats. 

John said nothing further and Blackburn remained silent as John put the vehicle into gear and drove ahead into the cold darkness of a rainy London night.


	4. Chapter 4

The silence in the vehicle drew out as John Watson and his captive left the city centre and drove steadily toward the outskirts of West London. It was finally broken by Blackburn, who, his face still pressed to his knees, asked curiously, “Who are you?”

John did not answer. 

Blackburn gave what sounded like a resigned sigh in the silence. “I wasn’t expecting you.” After a pause he added almost ruefully, “There’s always something.” The latter statement he seemed to mutter more to himself than to John. 

“Shut up,” ordered John harshly, unable to keep the venom he felt toward Blackburn out of his voice. He hadn’t intended to speak to Blackburn, there was no need to, but something about the man was irritating to John in the extreme. John tried to refocus. It was Blackburn’s bloody arrogance that rankled so much. But this was a job, nothing else. Personal animosity had no place in this type of work. John knew very well that emotions of any sort only clouded one’s judgement and created risk. 

At the sound of John’s angry voice, Blackburn’s shoulders stiffened and he turned his head slightly, listening intently. John noted this action curiously; strange that his order to shut up would frighten Blackburn when nothing else had so far. He mentally kicked himself. A calm hostage was much easier to deal with than a frightened one. Fear manifested itself differently in people and John had no knowledge of how Blackburn might react to it. The background information provided to John hadn’t offered any insights; the man appeared to be supremely confident at all times.

Blackburn should bloody well be frightened, thought John, angry once more. It was probably becoming apparent to Blackburn that he wasn’t being taken for a Sunday drive. Given his recent activities at BC he could likely guess what lay ahead. At this thought, to John’s consternation, an unexpected sense of unease about what he was doing arose. Dismayed, he repressed his doubt ruthlessly. Blackburn deserved everything he was in for. But still…there was sadness about Blackburn, a resignation, John could feel it. John tried once more to shake off his uneasy thoughts. What was happening to his objectivity?! 

John trod heavily on the vehicle’s brakes at a traffic light which had turned red while he was distracted by his thoughts. He cursed as both he and Blackburn lurched forward on the front seat. John braced himself with the steering wheel, but Blackburn’s head made hard contact with the car’s dash. With a sharp exclamation of pain Blackburn slumped sideways. John’s reaction to aid him was instinctive. He thrust the vehicle’s transmission into park−a safe enough action, for the intersection was deserted at four-thirty in the morning−and he reached for Blackburn with an exclamation of “Alright?!”

John was unprepared for the sudden press of long fingers against his throat and the unfocused but flinty blue stare that met his own. Blackburn's stunning gaze held John’s for a second before his other hand was on the door handle and he was in the process of levering himself out of the car. But before Blackburn could get further, John, his reflexes fast, was able to draw the syringe that he had prepared for just such an emergency, from the console beside him. He jabbed the needle into Blackburn’s neck and held him as he subsided back against the passenger seat. 

As he stared down into Blackburn’s pale face, to John’s confusion, rather than relief, he was conscious of a sense of loss as the Blackburn's brilliant eyes shuttered closed. 

Blackburn murmured as he slumped in John’s arms, “I suppose it’s too much to hope that that wasn’t a benzodiazepine sedation agent.” His words were slurred but his expression of regret was clear.


	5. Chapter 5

Bloody hell! John cursed as he reclined the passenger seat and dragged a blanket from the back seat to pull over the now limp Blackburn. He’d been sloppy; it was his own damn fault that he now had the burden of an incapacitated captive. He’d let himself be distracted by….by…what? What was it about Blackburn that was making him so uneasy? John wasn’t certain−which annoyed him even more than he was already. Thrusting the questions from his mind he jammed the vehicle into gear and drove determinedly onward.

Moments later he glanced down at Blackburn. Damn it all! The man wasn’t just limp he was unconscious! And why the hell was that?! He shouldn’t be. The dose of drug that John had administered was the minimum amount required to sedate, certainly not enough to render a man of Blackburn’s size unconscious. Cinolazepam was normally a highly tolerated drug. The risk of reaction to it was minimal. It had to be something else. 

He reached for his prisoner’s pulse and found it weak and slow. John cursed again. He would have to stop somewhere and properly examine Blackburn. That Blackburn was faking unconsciousness was out of the question. Obviously, he was intelligent and skilled at escaping captivity, given his demonstration earlier, but no one could fake the heart rate or pallor and shallow breathing that John was observing. 

John considered his options. The arrangement had been to deliver Blackburn to RAF Welford, the closest UK, USAF base to London. Welford was only a one hour and 19 minute drive on the M4 but John knew that he would have to stop well before reaching it, given Blackburn’s present condition. He decided to maintain his current direction and take the few minutes required to get them out of London before the morning commuter traffic started. Stuck in traffic there would be little he could provide in the way of medical assistance to his prisoner. 

His face set grimly, he concentrated on leaving the city as quickly as he could without attracting attention.


	6. Chapter 6

In a matter of minutes they had reached Slough and John drew into a deserted, crumbling car park, liberally sprayed with graffiti, and brought the car to a stop. He stepped from the driver’s side of the vehicle, reaching behind the seat for his medical bag as he did so. By the time he had rounded the car and reached the passenger door, he was a different man. Although unaware of it himself, he no longer possessed the edginess of a “hired-gun” but instead had taken on the mantle of quietly efficient doctor. 

Blackburn was semi-conscious. He resisted the touch of John’s cool hands on his neck with an uncoordinated fist that narrowly missed John’s nose. 

“Relax, please.” John’s direction was spoken in a firm but quiet tone to which Blackburn responded immediately. He subsided under the light touch of John’s hands and submitted to his examination. His speech slurred, he muttered a reference to chest pain before drifting into unconsciousness once more. 

Blackburn’s condition was not good. His central nervous system was inexplicably depressed; his breathing was shallow and his blood pressure low. Examination completed, John stepped back from his patient to rest one hand on his hip and the other on the car door. He observed Blackburn. John was puzzled. If he didn’t know it was impossible he would have diagnosed the man as suffering from a drug overdose. 

John waited five tense minutes before leaning over Blackburn again and re-taking his vital signs. To his consternation, the man’s condition was deteriorating! Christ! He’d have to get Blackburn to a location where he could be properly treated if he was going to have a chance of pulling out of this state. There was no time to lose. His brow furrowed with anxiety, John threw his medical bag back into the car, slid behind the wheel and drove from the car park. 

He turned west but exited the thruway as soon as they were clear of Slough. He was headed to an out-of-the-way pub, the Rookwood Arms in the village of Foxley, where he’d once stayed. It was still very early morning; there was a chance he could convincingly pass the two of them off as over-indulgent party-goers in unexpected need of a room to rest up in. A story about the revelry of a friend’s wedding reception in Slough should be enough to deflect any awkward questions. 

It would have to suffice because his observations of Blackburn told him that the man’s condition was continuing to worsen. Blackburn’s heartbeat was erratic, he was too drowsy and between shallow breaths he was starting to cough up phlegm. If his symptoms continued to worsen, John feared the man would not be alive by the time it was daylight.


	7. Chapter 7

Foxley was in darkness as John drew the car to a stop at the Rookwood Arms. He parked behind a large shrub, hidden from view from the street, more out of habit than a sense of threat, although one couldn’t be too careful. There had been no sign of life in the village as they had driven through it. Neither was there any activity to be seen in the pub, although a light was visible from one of its back room windows. 

The light, it turned out, was in the kitchen where the pub’s breakfast cook was at work. It was he who opened the door to John’s insistent ringing. A rather listless young man, he shrugged off-handedly at John’s story of excessive wedding celebrations and handed over a room key without comment. To John’s relief, he was nowhere to be seen a short time later when John half carried a staggering Blackburn up the main staircase of the pub to a second floor room. 

The room was damp and chilled, hardly suitable for an ill patient. John glanced around hoping to find a source of warmth and to his relief saw a gas fireplace. He pulled off his coat, the lining of which was dry, and laid it on the room’s only couch. He then eased Blackburn down into a reclining position on the cushions. He pushed the seat closer to the fire, which he lit before bending to re-examine his patient. 

The outcome of his assessment was no less alarming than his previous examination. In addition to his persistent cough, Blackburn was short of breath and his heart beat irregular. He was muttering incoherently and appeared to be hallucinating. The man needed immediate care. There was no help for it, John would have to leave Blackburn alone for a minute or two and make a dash back to the car to collect his medical bag and duffle.

When John had addressed Blackburn earlier the man had listened to him, so in the same firm tone, John assured Blackburn that he would not be gone long and ordered him to remain still, placing a hand on Blackburn’s shoulder for emphasis. Blackburn nodded abruptly, lucid for an instant before reverting to slurred mumbling. John gave him a concerned final glance and exited the room, locking the door behind him and hastily descending the stairs to collect his baggage from the car. 

When he returned minutes later it was to find Blackburn struggling to rise from the floor, where he had obviously fallen, and attempting to crawl to the door. At John’s reappearance he raised his head weakly and gasped out, “Mycroft!” 

When John, observing him, did not respond immediately, he repeated desperately, “Mycroft! Listen to me!”

“Yes, it’s alright…I’m going to help you.” John went to his aid, grasping his arm and encouraging him back in the direction of the couch. 

But Blackburn refused his hand, insisting, “Martha−Mrs. Hudson… Give me your word, Mycroft!”

“Yes, yes,” John soothed, “It’s alright. Calm down. Martha will be alright.”

This time at the sound of John’s voice, Blackburn lurched partially upright to grip John’s arms and look up at him. His eyes tearful, he begged between short breaths, “See that Mycroft looks after her… Will you do this for me? Please…!” 

"Okay, yes I will. I will. Take it easy now. Just take it easy,” John reassured, once again urging Blackburn back toward the couch.

The man subsided once more into incoherent mumbling and allowed John to assist him back to the couch. “Claudia and Max Bruhl…its arsenic…Kitty Riley…stupid…Brixton, Lauriston Gardens…but that was ages ago…why would she still be upset?”

“Open your eyes, please. Look at me…” John’s quiet request stopped Blackburn’s ramblings, although his coughing and gasping for air continued.

“James. Look at me, please.” 

“James!” Blackburn’s response to the name was electric. Despite his weakness, he stiffened with distress and cringed away from John.

“There, there…calm down please. I’m not going to harm you.” John urged Blackburn to settle again with soothing hands.

Blackburn opened his eyes again to stare at John. He said, “You’re a doctor. A military doctor...” Then, in alarm he said, “Stay away from Moriarty. He’s mad!” He fought to rise. “He’ll kill you!”

The effort was too much for his failing system, Blackburn collapsed against the couch cushions. He struggled for breath, trying to speak to John, although the ability was leaving him, “Look at me! I’m afraid!” Blackburn’s pupils were the size of pinpoints as he stared at John. His lips were blue and his face white. 

Observing these symptoms, all doubt left John’s mind. He didn’t know how it could be, but he was now certain that Blackburn was suffering from an overdose of benzodiazepine. He reached for his medical bag. “It’s going to be alright,” he assured Blackburn quietly, “I’m here to take care of you so I want you to trust me and cooperate. You are going to be fine but we will have to work together on it.” He smoothed the damp curls back from Blackburn’s forehead. “Now, I’m going to give you an injection, alright?” 

He saw Blackburn’s barely discernable nod as the man muttered, “Heroes don’t exist,” and dropped into unconsciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

Now that he knew the cause of Blackburn’s medical crisis, John gave him an injection of Flumazenil, the antidote for benzodiazepine overdose. It was risky, the drug sometimes induced seizures, but it offered Blackburn’s best chance for recovery from his current precarious state. His medical profile had shown nothing to counter-indicate the use of the drug. 

Watching Blackburn’s face, one hand on his too-hot forehead and the fingers of his other hand on Blackburn’s wrist, John waited for the injection to begin to take effect. It worked. Within seconds, Blackburn’s pulse steadied and his colour improved. John drew a breath. Blackburn would require vigilant care for the next few hours but at least now he had a chance at survival.

John did not leave Blackburn’s side for the remainder of the morning. And as he worked to save the life of his patient an unmistakable transformation overcame him. The bitterness of defeat in battle and the impotent rage of a wounded warrior that had been so evident in his face, just the day before, disappeared. Left in its place was the vision of a brilliant physician, a rare being gifted with the ability to inspire healing in the human body and mind. 

As for Blackburn, although robbed of his reason and mastery over his own body, he knew enough to surrender to the man in whose hands he found himself. Whether he would live or die, by unspoken agreement between the two of them, was now John’s to determine.

John applied everything he had to keeping his patient alive. The Flumazenil had to be re-administered hourly until Blackburn’s condition was stable and his breathing had to be monitored continuously. It would prevent any further depression of his central nervous system, but respiratory failure was still a great risk. He was barely breathing on his own; he managed it only with assistance from John who, each time Blackburn began to choke, which was often, adjusted Blackburn’s position to clear his airways.

John’s job was made difficult because, despite his grave condition, Blackburn demonstrated tremendous physical and mental stamina. As his strength returned in small increments he began to struggle fiercely against his impairment. It was all John could to keep him calm. He managed it only by maintaining an ongoing commentary, aloud, describing to Blackburn the incremental improvements in his condition. The man was a scientist, John reasoned, so even as disoriented as he was, he would find the information reassuring. 

Blackburn repeatedly tried to engage John, despite his mental confusion. And as John listened to Blackburn’s anxious ramblings, he became increasingly convinced that Blackburn’s words were not based on nonsensical delusions, as he’d first assumed. Blackburn’s urgent tone and the conviction of his thoughts were undeniable, although obviously out of context in his current surroundings. 

“He killed the old lady because she was about to describe him.” It was anxiously stated and this together with the other things Blackburn had said, pointed to a man very much concerned about the wellbeing of the people in his life. John puzzled over this as he retook Blackburn’s vital signs and blotted the perspiration from his face countless times over the course of the morning. It was impossible to ignore the incongruence of the man John was nursing back to life and the cold-hearted man whose profile John had studied so carefully on the previous day.

Still more puzzling was Blackburn’s apparent concern for John himself. At one point during the morning, Blackburn had again entreated him agitatedly, “Stay away from James Moriarty! You must listen to me! Can’t you see what is happening!?”

John was convinced that Blackburn was not confusing him with the Mycroft he had referred to earlier. The man’s concern for John’s wellbeing appeared to be genuine enough that John was forced to believe it to be real. Nothing about Blackburn was adding up!

By noon, John had been caring for his patient for more than six continuous hours. It had been difficult keeping him calm but his effort had paid off. Blackburn had improved significantly. 

John had succeeded in calming him by easing his distress over Mrs. Hudson, whoever she may be, and Mycroft. And Blackburn, once he was no longer agitated, had settled into confused mutterings. 

“I thought the drug was in the sugar…" he said, "It won’t happen again...” 

“Hmmm…no matter,” John had reassured him as he took his temperature once again, “next time you’ll know…”

“I need an assistant,” responded Blackburn. 

“Yes, of course you do,” John had agreed easily as he propped his patient up into a position where he would find breathing easier. 

And so the morning had progressed. When John had finally looked at his watch at noon he was able to say to Blackburn warmly and truthfully, “You are out of the woods.” He stroked Blackburn’s forehead approvingly. “You’ve been amazing. But you need to rest now…” and when his patient’s brilliant eyes opened warily, he said, “I’ll be here to make sure nothing goes wrong, so you can sleep safely.” John smiled and nodded understandingly, “I know you’re tired and it’s alright to rest now.” At John’s last words, Blackburn’s eyes slid shut and for the first time that morning, when he went still, it was in deep sleep instead of unconsciousness. 

John remained sitting alongside him, deep in thought. He had a great deal to ponder, not the least of which was that while it was true that Blackburn was recovering, it would be another day, if not longer, before he was mobile again. He was still a very sick man.


	9. Chapter 9

An hour later in the silence of the dim second floor room of the Rookwood Arms, Blackburn was still sleeping peacefully with John Watson keeping watch at his side. Despite his grueling morning, there was no trace of tiredness in John’s face; he rested a vigilant hand on Blackburn’s wrist and listened to his breathing as he stared unseeingly into the small gas fireplace. That there was something wrong with the scenario his employer had presented him regarding Blackburn was obvious. There was much more to the man lying beside him than John had been told when he agreed to the job; whether the man wasn’t Blackburn at all or John’s employer had misinformed him about Blackburn’s doings−knowingly or unknowingly−John wasn’t sure. Either way though, it didn’t matter, John realized. Even if Blackburn was the villainous traitor he’d been portrayed as, there was now no question of John carrying through with the plan to deliver him to the CIA. And John was fully aware that the unidentified client that had hired his employer to apprehend Blackburn was the CIA. 

The British Secret Service…CSIS...the CIA… purveyors in the torture trade, all. John acknowledged to himself, belatedly, that he wouldn’t have been able to follow through on the job even if Blackburn hadn’t become ill and required medical help. The flare of vengeful wrath he’d experienced when he learned of Blackburn’s association with QAT had burned out quickly. Intercepting Blackburn had done nothing to ease his pain, his constant companion since Afghanistan. And offering up a man, any man, for torture and disappearance was not in John’s nature, no matter how damaged his soul. 

For the first time in many minutes, John turned his gaze from the fire to look at the man lying beside him. Blackburn was extraordinarily beautiful: John raised his hand to ghost over the prominent bones of Blackburn’s face, silently reciting as he did…lacrimal, mandible, maxilla, nasal, vomer, zygomatic, frontal, temporal… The human head was so very vulnerable. It wasn’t difficult for John to imagine a different image; the translucent purity of Blackburn’s pale skin beneath John’s fingers, split apart, blood thick and blue bruised flesh over broken bone. He shut his eyes. Not this man, not on my watch.

He opened his eyes again to study Blackburn. Even in slack repose there was something visible of the bold expression that John had taken for arrogance when he had seen Blackburn’s picture. John had been mistaken of course, it wasn’t arrogance. It was something quite different; a raw brashness directed at…what? Life itself? John wasn’t certain. And that brashness, the bold challenge in Blackburn’s expression was backed up by fierce courage. John had seen it in the man’s fight for his life and his decision to surrender its outcome to John, an abductor whom he had no reason to trust. Traitor or not, John knew he was in the presence of a remarkable man. 

Blackburn was stable. He would sleep now for a number of hours, so John rose slowly and made his way to the small loo adjoining their room where he had a quick shower and changed his clothes. He emerged a short time later, clean shaven and dressed in basic jeans and a T-shirt. Even at that he didn’t look quite ordinary; the outline of his army id tags was visible against his chest under the T-shirt and the squared, hard set of his shoulders betrayed tension, also reflected in his facial expression. 

Nevertheless, when he bent to the couch it was with gentle hands that he checked the condition of a motionless Blackburn. He noted with satisfaction that Blackburn was sleeping soundly and comfortably.

Now would be the best time for John himself to rest so he settled in the chair across from his patient and closed his eyes. John knew sleep was unlikely, it was difficult for him to sleep at the best of times, and stranded, mid-job with an ill hostage, off-course and overdue, was hardly the best of times. 

John reviewed their circumstances as he sat with closed eyes and the back of his head resting against the chair. He should have checked in with Graves long before now, should have provided him with a status update. So why hadn’t he?

John thought about it. It wasn’t too late. There was still time to salvage the job. 

He should have called. What was he thinking? He was mad to go rogue! It would mean the end of his career certainly and likely even cost him his life, given the serious trouble that Blackburn appeared to be in! But even as he contemplated turning to pick up his mobile, John knew with certainty that he wouldn’t. 

The silent dismay over his inexplicable personal decision around Blackburn, which had been hovering in the back of his mind for hours, flooded over him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as the chronic pain in his right leg made itself felt. Perhaps it was inevitable. Really, he’d known that his life was over the second the bullet had entered his shoulder, just as certainly as if it had pierced his heart. The end had simply been a long time coming. Too long. He sighed tiredly.


	10. Chapter 10

John’s next awareness was of jerking awake in alarm. His hands gripped at the arms of his chair and he fought for alertness. His first thought was of Blackburn. Where was he!? As his vision sharpened, John saw to his overwhelming relief that Blackburn was still lying, just as he had been earlier, on the couch. But he wasn’t asleep anymore; instead he was staring unblinkingly at John. 

John shook his head and squeezed his eyelids together trying to clear the fog that an unfamiliarly deep sleep had settled on his brain. He breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes again it was to find Blackburn’s compelling gaze still on him. Struggling with the remnants of sleep, it was impossible for John to look away even though he wanted to; the man’s mercilessly piercing eyes seemed to be searching inside John for something...as though Blackburn was examining the torn and blackened fabric of his soul with a ruthless precision. John was immobilized. 

But as searingly uncomfortable as the man’s examination of him was, John was unprepared for the loss he felt when Blackburn sighed slightly and turned his gaze to the ceiling before closing his eyes. John was pitched into a dark free-fall. Too late, he wanted desperately to hold on to the look; it had seemed to offer him something…something important… 

“I need a cigarette.”

It was the first time since their brief exchange in the car that Blackburn had spoken coherently. 

John said, “No. Smoking is bad for you.” He stopped in surprise. Where on earth had that statement come from? 

Blackburn turned his face and raised a mocking eyebrow at John. “Your concern for my health is touching. Truly it is.” There was an unflattering emphasis on the last phrase.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, annoyingly confused once more, and said, “Right. Well. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

Back on steadier ground now, dealing with a recalcitrant patient, John replied, “Well, you need to eat something anyway and so do I. So, I’m going to go down to the kitchen for some food. Don’t attempt to rise; you will be unable to stand for at least the next ten hours or so.”

This time the raised eyebrow was accompanied by a distinct eye roll ceiling ward and Blackburn didn’t respond. 

John returned to their room from his trip to the kitchen with a pot of tea, two mugs, two covered bowls of vegetable beef soup, and two buttered rolls on a tray. He set the tray on the small desk in front of the window in their room. A brief glance at Blackburn indicated that he was once again asleep. 

John stood and surveyed the view from the window. Despite it being 3:30 in the afternoon, darkness was starting to fall. The day had hardly been light. The rain hadn’t ceased since they’d arrived in Foxley; it fell on the roof with a steady hum, flowed down the inn’s drain pipes and formed puddles on the waterlogged ground. It was the sort of November afternoon he might have enjoyed before the war; settling before the fire with a book and a mug of hot tea. But peace and contentment were gone from him now, torn from his soul by a burning sun; screams of anguish and death on hard-baked earth. The hole that remained had refused to mend; through it everything that had been meaningful in his life had drained away, leaving him hollow. He had felt the loss but had been unable to stop it. 

He gave his head a small shake, shrugged his shoulders and turned from the window. He’d wait for Blackburn to wake and then persuade him to eat and drink. Something told him it wouldn’t be an easy task. 

The room was in almost complete darkness when Blackburn stirred awake again. John rose from his chair and turned on the desk light. 

“I want you to have some tea and soup,” he told Blackburn. “And stop trying to get off the couch, you’ll hurt yourself,” he added to a struggling Blackburn, who was trying to heave himself unsteadily from the cushions.

Blackburn subsided. “Just tea. I’m not hungry,” he said irritably.

John continued as though Blackburn hadn’t spoken, “And when you have had some soup and a roll, you may have this.” He placed a single cigarette on the lamp table beside the couch. “Nicotine withdrawal symptoms will put too great of a strain on your system at right now, otherwise I would insist you go without,” he said, by way of an explanation.

Blackburn glared up at him owlishly but didn’t argue further. 

Good Lord, thought John as he gathered the tea tray to carry it to the couch. If the man was this stubborn in his present condition, it didn’t bear thinking about what he might be like in full health! 

The soup and tea were still warm. John assisted Blackburn to sit upright and helped him sip the mug of tea and finish half of a bowl of the soup. Then after Blackburn had swallowed a couple of bites of the bread roll, he accepted John’s offer of several short puffs of the cigarette. By the time he had finished that, he was fighting exhaustion once more and struggling to stay upright. John smiled as he watched Blackburn’s body refuse to cooperate and he sagged back against the couch cushions. 

“It’s fine,” John said as he bent to help make him comfortable. “Go back to sleep.” 

With which reassurance, Blackburn closed his eyes once more.


	11. Chapter 11

John sat down to have his own meal and as he did so, he assessed his patient’s progress. All in all, Blackburn was doing well, in fact, recovering remarkably fast. To John’s surprise, this realization caused a sudden swell of warm satisfaction within him. He wondered at it while he sipped his tea and listened to the drumming of the rain on the roof and the faint hiss of the gas fire burning before him. How extraordinary to feel something, anything, for the first time in months, in circumstances such as these. 

He was still sitting in the chair hours later when Blackburn woke again. John didn’t move as he watched Blackburn open his eyes and turn his head to look for John. Their eyes met and held. Neither of them blinked. 

John, his fingers entwined and pressed thoughtfully against his chin, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, spoke first. “So, you are a heroin user, then. An addict?”

Blackburn showed no surprise at the question. He shook his head almost imperceptibly. After a short silence he said, “Not any more. Its appeal is…occasional.”

“I see. And the ‘occasion’ yesterday was…?”

Blackburn raised his head. “Call me mad but I think a strong opiate is in order when one is about to be carved to pieces with a scimitar before the night is out. However, what do I know? I’m not a doctor.” He glared pointedly at John.

John looked away. “I used to be.”

“Unless you’ve been stricken off the Medical Register, you still are,” Blackburn said flatly.

John glanced back at him. “Let’s talk about you. Who are you?”

“James Blackburn.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ah. Talking in my sleep?”

“Yes, quite a bit, actually.”

The man looked up at the ceiling before meeting John’s eyes again with his now familiar intense stare. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I reside at 221B Baker Street, London. I am a consulting detective−when I’m not being forced by the British Government to take on futile and pointless undercover assignments.” His tone was sour.

John pressed his lips together and frowned. “So not a recruit to the QAT cause then. Not a brilliant chemist turned traitor?” Fury was welling up. “Just an amateur detective with a poor ability to pick friends. Is that it?” He rose with an angry shake of his head and began to pace the interior wall of the room with his hands on his hips.

Sherlock sat up unsteadily but determinedly. His voice, as hard and cold as his eyes, followed John. “You may be correct on the friends point. As for the rest of it, Doctor, you are mistaken! I assure you I am an amateur at nothing I do; chemistry, detection or otherwise.” He paused. “Which is more than I can say for your clumsy efforts at kidnapping and incapacitating me! And…” He added coldly, “And it’s quite obvious that you fall short in the friends department yourself!”

John halted and drew a sharp breath but ignored the insults. He demanded, “Why the hell didn’t your handler pull you before last night?! QAT was right behind me. And you knew it. That’s why you came with me without a fight. Even unknown, I was a better option!”

Sherlock nodded once in confirmation.

John asked again, incredulously, “Why were you out in the cold just waiting around to be killed?!”

Sherlock bent his head to consider his hands in his lap. “My…er…handler…sometimes has limited options where I am concerned. This is one of those times.”

“What the hell does that mean?!” demanded John in exasperation. “You’re expendable?” At Sherlock’s nod of admission, John exclaimed in disbelief, “My God, you must have done something pretty big to piss-off the British government to that degree!”

Sherlock grimaced. “The British government is frequently…pissed-off…at me, doctor.” 

John gave a humourless laugh. “This thing has been a cock-up right from the start.”

Sherlock nodded and said, his tone resigned, “On that, we agree.”

 

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John. He wore what John was coming to realize was his usual brash expression, but John could see from the pallor of his skin and the weakness in his posture that his prisoner was still far from well. 

John, his anger dissolving, drew another breath and raised his eyes to the ceiling before saying, “You’re still weak. Get some more rest and we’ll sort out what to do to fix this in the morning, alright? There is nothing we can do until you’re stronger anyway.” 

Sherlock looked as though he was about to argue but thought better of it. He nodded grudgingly and reclining his head to the back of the couch he closed his eyes once more. 

John stood observing him silently for several seconds before crossing the room and bending to his duffel.


	12. Chapter 12

It was seven am when Sherlock awoke again, not peacefully as he had the previous night but this time with a violent start and audible choking gasps. John moved to the couch beside him to lay a soothing hand on his forehead, “It’s alright, relax, it’s normal; it will take a while for your nervous system to settle down after the overdose. You can expect something similar to PTSD for a short while, but it won’t last.” 

The soothing hand was batted away in annoyance. “And…what about you...doctor?” Sherlock demanded between gasps, “Your PTSD? How long will…it last…untreated as it is?” he bit out the accusation between dragging in lungful’s of air and glaring at John. 

“Never mind what I might have, Sherlock, you’re the patient here! Now, start breathing from your abdomen, not your mouth and you’ll feel a lot better!” John pressed firmly on Sherlock’s belly to force him to start breathing from his diaphragm.

It was in the midst of this slight scuffle that there was a knock on the door and a voice that sounded like the cook’s from the kitchen called a cheerful, “G’morning mates. Ere’s your breakfast.”

“What is it with you and food?!” Sherlock frowned at John and exclaimed, “I suffered a drug overdose! Not starvation!”

“I didn’t order food! Put your head down and don’t move!”

Even as he growled this order, John turned to the door and reached behind to pull the automatic pistol from his belt, from where he’d placed it the previous night upon learning some of the details of Sherlock’s circumstances. Glancing back to ensure Sherlock had obeyed him and was motionless and low on the couch cushions, John moved to position himself along one wall of the hallway leading to the door and called, “Hang on, hang on! I’m coming.” He then darted silently across the hall to wedge in adjacent to the handle side of the closed door. He reached carefully to turn the door handle; touching it with a slight rattle and as he did so, without notice, two gun shots were fired through the door, at man height, and it was shoved violently open. 

John was ready with his pistol. In one practised motion he brought the muzzle down against their would-be assassin’s temple as he pushed through the doorway, and pulled the trigger. The man dropped; killed instantly. Without hesitation, John stepped over the body to glance into the outside hallway. Seeing no one, he withdrew again and bent to drag the body into the room and close the door.

He bent to look at his victim briefly. “Not QAT, not one of the other two either. An independent.”

For the first time since the incident began he looked at Sherlock and said, “I’m sorry but we can’t stay here now, we have to leave immediately. There will be others following this one.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was staring at John with an oddly perplexed expression pulling at the muscles of his face. It was as though his facial muscles were so unused to forming themselves into that particular expression of puzzlement that they didn’t know how to do it and had commenced fighting with one another over it. 

“What is it? Are you hurt? What?” John questioned.

Sherlock roused himself and stammered, “Ah, no…I’m fine, I’m fine…ah…and you...er...? Are you alright?”

“John. John Watson. Yes, of course. I’m sorry you had to witness that. I didn’t think…I’m sorry.” It was John’s turn to sound uncomfortable.

Startled, Sherlock answered, “No! No, you mistake me John, it’s…it’s fine. You saved my life…ah…thank you.”

John gave a bitter laugh. “No, Sherlock, I’ve risked your life. Risked it terribly... so don’t thank me, please!”

He replaced his pistol behind his back. "Now, we must get out of here."


	13. Chapter 13

“Can you stand?” John went to Sherlock’s side to assist him up. Sherlock rose unsteadily but once he was upright, he was able to stay that way. 

“Good.” John nodded approvingly. He picked up their assailant’s weapon from the floor, added it to his own which was tucked in his belt and dragged their attacker’s body over to the closet where he shoved it unceremoniously inside and closed the door. The body hidden, he scanned the room for anything left behind that might indicate who it was that had stayed there. 

Once he was satisfied the room was clear, John opened the door and pulled the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign from the door handle and tacked it over the bullet holes. “This will buy us 24 hours at least before any local authorities are called...perhaps longer; the room’s been paid-up for three days.”

He shouldered his duffle and with his medical bag in one hand, he lent the other to Sherlock. “Let’s go.” 

They made their uneven way down an empty staircase and to the back fire exit door. There, with Sherlock hidden in the shadows of the hallway, John scanned the pub’s back garden to ensure that no one was about to witness them leaving.  
The garden was clear. John assisted Sherlock out the back door of the pub and into the chilly car. The morning was barely light and the rain still heavy as he got behind the wheel and eased out of the pub’s driveway and onto the street. Without headlights, they were nearly invisible and, behind them, the vehicle’s muddy tire tracks were soon obscured by channels of rainwater, erasing any sign that they had ever been there. 

John spoke first. “Since they know we are in Foxley, our…followers will have guessed that Welford is where we were headed. Our best chance of throwing them off our trail is to go nowhere; to stay here in Foxley.” He glanced at Sherlock who, despite the warmth of the car heater was beginning to tremble. “They won’t expect it and it’s better for you; any activity right now will set your progress back. I know someone in the village; we’ll have to drop in unannounced.” 

Despite his physical symptoms, Sherlock’s expression was calm. He was not rattled in the slightest bit, in fact, just the opposite; in the dim light of the dashboard an expression of interest was clear on his face. John reflected not for the first time, that there was nothing ordinary about his passenger.

Less than five minutes after they had left the pub, John was steering the car into a high-hedged driveway a short distance from the village. He drew to a stop near the front door of an old but neatly maintained cottage.

“Stay here,” he ordered his passenger as he exited the car, missing the arched eyebrow and amused half smile that his order elicited from Sherlock. 

John was back to the vehicle in seconds, holding the key he’d retrieved from under the potted geranium on the front step of the cottage.

“Your…friend…he’s away?” questioned Sherlock.

John looked at him in surprise. “My friends Mike and Molly? Yes, they appear to be away. But don’t worry; they won’t mind us stopping in for a short while. And it’s safer for them that they aren’t here, of course.”

“You aren’t the kind of man who would put your friends in danger, John.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet.

“I suppose not,” John reflected, “I guess that’s why I have no one close to me, I chose this lifestyle: I won’t impose it on anyone else.” 

Sherlock’s only response to this statement was a brief nod, but had anyone been looking closely they would have seen an unmistakably pleased expression settle itself on his face as John drew the car up in front of a converted stable, across the garden from the cottage. 

John got out, opened the stable doors and drove the car in. Then, baggage on one shoulder, he assisted Sherlock from the car and back across the lawn to the front door of the cottage. There, with Sherlock propped up against the door jamb, he opened the door and threw his duffle into the hall. He guided Sherlock in and closed and locked the door firmly behind them.

The place was cold and damp; it had obviously been vacant for some time. John guided Sherlock into a small kitchen where he settled him at the table. 

“In Greece,” said John, reading a note on the counter, “back on Sunday night. The neighbour is to look in on the place on Thursday morning. Good, we have time to rest up and be gone before then.” He studied Sherlock, pale and slumping in his chair. “I’m going to insist on you eating something, Sherlock, but first let’s have a cup of tea and get some heat turned on. We can’t make a fire or turn lights on though, it’s too risky.” 

Sherlock tried to rise as if to help but John put a steadying hand on his shoulder to hold him in place. “No, let me get this, you aren’t up to much yet.”

Half an hour later, the electric heat turned on, they were sitting in the now slightly warmer kitchen, sipping mugs of strong tea, sugared and milk-less, and munching hot buttered toast. John, observing Sherlock, was pleased to see his colour returning, although his movements were still slow and awkward.

He said, “You are recovering well, but you’ve done enough for the morning. It’s time for a rest.”

"I’d like to shower John, before.”

John studied him carefully before saying, “Alright, but I think a bath is more advisable, given the state of your coordination and balance.”

“I despise baths John, I want to shower.”

John heaved an inward sigh, yes; his patient was definitely improving, if degrees of stubbornness were anything to go by…

Aloud all he said was, "Alright, but you must take it easy, your balance will come and go without warning over the next several days and you risk a serious fall if you aren’t careful, alright?” 

“Yes, John.” 

Sherlock's response was so unexpectedly subdued that John looked at him sharply. He softened his tone, “I can understand wanting to clean up, Sherlock; we can run your clothes through the washer too if you like.”

He smiled then and extended his hand to Sherlock.


	14. Chapter 14

After ensuring that Sherlock made it safely to the loo upstairs to take his shower, John did a thorough security assessment of the cottage’s windows and doors, noting blind spots and the locations in the garden from where views into the cottage were possible. He was back upstairs again, in the cottage’s small guest room when, above the sound of the shower running, he heard a crash from the loo across the hallway. 

“Oh, for…!” John voiced a mild curse. “Just bloody minded!”

He rapped on the door of the loo and called, “Alright in there?” When he received no answer he turned the door knob and put his head around the door. Sherlock was standing upright, but clutching the basin for support with one hand, his grubby shirt dangling from the other. A broken china toothbrush stand and toothbrushes lay scattered on the tiled floor.

“I… I’m fine, John. Just a bit light headed…dizzy...” 

“And that,” John gestured at the broken china on the floor, “…was probably a precious family heirloom and completely irreplaceable...” His tone was resigned. 

“I’m sorry, John. I…I guess I do need help…” Sherlock’s expression wasn’t visible as he stared down at the broken bits of pink and blue china, but his tone was meek. “Would you… John?”

“Yes, alright then. First, hand me the shirt.”

John, his anxiety over Sherlock’s wellbeing fading at finding him unharmed, suddenly became overwhelmingly aware of Sherlock shirtless in the steam filled room. He stared. Sherlock’s broad shoulders and lean waist, hinted at under his clothing, were spectacularly confirmed when without a shirt. His chest, abdomen and shoulders were strongly muscled. John’s eyes, of their own volition, followed the long lines and firm curves over bone… pectoralis major, serratus anterior, deltoid, external oblique... and on Sherlock’s skin − glorious surprise – there were scars; some faint, some bright, patterning Sherlock’s torso like a topographical map of miracles − healed skin drawn over rosy flesh. 

Sherlock’s trousers were still on, but barely; inviting John’s eyes to continue their fascinated exploration of the hills and valleys of Sherlock’s magnificent physique… John drifted again…rectus sheath, pelvis-obliquus, abdominis externus… He followed the slopes and hollows as far as he could, to where they disappeared below Sherlock’s unfastened belt buckle and undone trouser buttons. 

“John?” Sherlock’s expression was guileless and his eyebrows were raised in innocent question.

John started in confusion. He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course, yes, sorry, ah…I think a bath, not a shower, might be best.” He cleared his throat again and moistened his lips with his tongue. “Why don’t you sit on the toilet and hold onto the basin.” He gestured vaguely, “Just in case you become dizzy again.”

He paused and drew a deep breath. “I’ll pour the bath. We’ll run your clothes through the washer and dryer too, while you’re getting clean and taking a rest.” 

He was back to normal. “Sit please.”

The bath was accomplished with minimum awkwardness on John’s part, with no help from Sherlock, it should be said, who seemed not to have a modest bone in his body; dropping his trousers and pants where he stood and stretching languidly as John tried to steer him toward the bath tub.

“Bubbles, John?” questioned Sherlock, eyeing a mountain of white froth billowing up over the bath water, obscuring it completely.

“Sorry, it was all I could find for soap, Sherlock,” John lied – he had been desperate for anything to cover up Sherlock in the tub − “Molly enjoys a bubble bath, apparently.”

Sherlock paused to reflect. “Or perhaps Mike−” he began. 

“Please just sit down, Sherlock!” said John, near the end of his tether. 

Finally, definitely not soon enough for John, Sherlock, smelling strongly of lavender, was settled in the small guest room where he fell asleep almost immediately. A relieved John had a quick shower himself and put their clothes into the small washer in the kitchen. He then set about cleaning his weapons and checking his ammunition; thinking the while about what their next move should be. His thoughts were grim. Their situation was dire; the odds were against a successful outcome. 

A couple of hours later, John was stirring tinned soup on the cooker when Sherlock appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. Clean, dark curls gleaming and dressed in his expensive suiting, he presented the very picture of elegance and careless ease. John, confronted with this vision of astonishing good looks and poise, found to his internal dismay, his breath hitching slightly and the tingling physical awareness he’d felt earlier, return full force. God damn it! What the hell was wrong with him?! For one thing, Sherlock was a patient and for another, he was a man, for God’s sake! 

The shock and confusion John was feeling at his physical reaction to Sherlock, caused him to frown and lower his head to glare down at the chicken soup he was stirring, as though it had done him some grievous offence. 

“John?”

John didn’t look up. “Sherlock. How are you feeling?”

A pause. “Good, John. Good. And you?”

“What? Oh fine. Fine. I’ve heated some soup for us. Um…sit down and I’ll pour you a cup.”

“John. I’m not hungry and I don’t want soup. I want−” 

Sherlock’s words were cut off by a sudden irritated exclamation from John, “You don’t want soup?!” he snapped, “As if there is a menu to choose from, Sherlock! You should be worrying about bigger things than whether or not the soup suits your taste! Do you have any idea the kind of danger you are in?! Any idea at all, Sherlock?!”

Sherlock stilled and observed John carefully. After a moment he said, “Ah. You are angry with me, John. Why?”

John was away now, his anger spilling over. “This whole business is a bloody mess!” He glared at Sherlock, “Why were you playing at being a spy anyway, for Christ’s sake?! You thought it was game? Well, it’s not, Sherlock! People die. Maybe even you!” 

Sherlock stared back at him in surprise, “Are you trying to tell me the situation is my fault, John?! Because if so, you are wrong, it isn’t!” It was his turn to glare, “I am not the one who messed this up! You are a lousy mercenary, John! Why on earth would you agree to a job like this anyway? You are a doctor for God’s sake! An extraordinary rendition to a CIA black site for ‘questioning’?! It could hardly suit you less!” 

John reacted to this accusation with fury, lunging at Sherlock, pinning him to the wall by his shoulders and hissing up into his face, “You might think it fun to play at spies, but it isn’t for others! The QAT killed my best mate, that’s why I said yes to the job!” He ground out, “Do you know anything about that?! About knowing your friend’s death is your fault; that you should have, or could have, done something to save his life!? No, you don’t! So shut the hell up!” Then, stunned at his own aggression John fell back and put his hands to his head as if in pain. “Oh God!” he said, “Sherlock, I’m sorry!” His expression stricken, still clutching his head with his hands, he turned his back to Sherlock, who saw his shoulders begin to shake and his posture sag.

Sherlock disengaged the wall and moved cautiously to stand behind John. He said quietly, “John, may I help you? I would like to.” 

John, without turning, gulped and bit out a desperate laugh, “No, Sherlock, I’m beyond help! I think we can both see that!”

“I can’t, John.”

“You said it yourself, I almost killed you, Sherlock!”

“You weren’t to know I’d taken heroin John, and you saved my life!”

When John didn’t answer, Sherlock spoke again, slowly, “An….acquaintance... of mine once pointed out that someone can walk through in hell and still be on the side of the angels, John.” 

John shook his head. “I’ve done more than that, Sherlock. I sold my soul.”

“Perhaps. But you have the currency to buy it back, John, if you want to.”

John gave a choked laugh. “I don’t think it works that way, Sherlock.” He scrubbed his face with his hands and drew a deep breath. When he turned around to look at Sherlock, his expression was set. He said, “Get your coat, Sherlock. I’m taking you back to London.” 

Sherlock stiffened, “You can’t, John! You could be killed! You have to turn me over! There is no other way!”

But John was already in the hall preparing for their departure. Bending to his duffle, he shrugged at Sherlock’s protest. “Perhaps, but they won’t succeed in killing me before I get you back to London. And after that? It hardly matters.” He was packing his weapons and ammunition as he said this and so missed Sherlock’s look of dismay at his words. 

Sensing Sherlock had not moved, John said again, without looking up, “Let’s go. Now, Sherlock!” 

It was a direct order.


	15. Chapter 15

“Mike must have had a friend drive them to the airport. Thank God for airport parking being astronomically costly. We’ll borrow their number plates. That will buy us some time.” John said, “Stay here, please. I’ll pick you up around front when I’ve got them switched over.”

Sherlock nodded and watched John as he crossed the driveway beside the cottage and crouched behind Mike’s parked car. John had the front and rear plates off in seconds and disappeared with them into the garage. Minutes later he was pulling their car to a halt in front of the cottage where Sherlock met him obediently. John locked the door and returned the key to its hiding place under the geranium and ushered Sherlock to the car. 

There was silence as they pulled away from the cottage. The afternoon was still early enough to drive without headlights although the unrelenting rain, now accompanied by a light mist, impeded visibility greatly. John’s expression was a frozen mask, his eyes fixed on the road. Sherlock’s mouth was tense and there was a slight frown between his eyebrows. He glanced sideways at John several times but said nothing.

Finally, John broke the uneasy silence. “We’ll keep to the lane-ways. It’s certain we’ll be looked for on the motorway. They know we aren't headed to Welford now, so they will have put some resources on the lesser traveled routes too, but they won’t expect me to be taking you back to London. That would be suicide.” His lips twisted into a humourless smile. Eyes focused on the road, he didn’t see Sherlock’s sharp look of distress at this statement.

But all Sherlock said was “Yes, John.”


	16. Chapter 16

“Am I to understand that you have lost my brother?” The man speaking was standing with his hands behind his back, surveying the view of London from his floor-to-ceiling office windows. His stiff posture and the angry lift of his chin belied his emotionless voice. His back was to the man to whom he was speaking. 

“Yeah, well, y’see…” The second man spoke with a distinct American accent. 

“Yes, explain Neilson, please.”

Neilson’s jaw tightened in annoyance. “We were having some trouble picking him up. He was onto us. So we hired a merc… er… an outside agent.”

Mycroft Holmes turned from the window to face Neilson, his distain obvious.

“Your team is incapable of conducting one simple apprehension?”

Neilson shifted uncomfortably. He was sick to death of the God-damned Holmes brothers. The sooner he was back state-side the better.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered.

“I see. And to whom did you give the contract?”

“Trenholm Securities, they’re the best in the business. I’ve no idea what could’ve gone wrong.” Neilson was defensive.

“Well, we will find out what went wrong and then we will discuss what you will do to rectify the situation. Ask Robert Trenholm to pay me a visit. Immediately, if you would.”

Arrogant SOB, thought Neilson as he left the office. But he was phoning Robert Trenholm before he reached the elevators. 

A short time later, Robert Trenholm was seated in Mycroft’s office alongside Neilson. He was saying, his expression grim, “I can assure you, Sir, that I’m doing everything possible to locate and bring in our rogue agent. Along with er… your brother?” Here his voice rose in cautious question. 

Mycroft ignored it. He said, “I am aware of the risk my brother faces from QAT. What is his level of risk with this, ah…” he consulted his notes, “Captain John H. Watson?”

Trenholm’s expression became unreadable. He prevaricated, recalling Graves's description of the look in John’s eye when he’d been told of his target’s connection to QAT. He said, “Watson, until yesterday, has been the firm’s most talented and reliable contractor.” Then he betrayed his irritation by adding, “He’s never snapped-out on us before!”

“…despite a diagnosis of severe PTSD and depression?” Mycroft finished Trenholm’s sentence for him.

“…er, yes,” Trenholm admitted.

Mycroft’s reserve cracked. “I’ve heard enough! I expect to see my brother returned safely within 12 hours! Whatever it may take! I’m assigning all the resources available to me to oversee this operation. You will keep me informed as to every step that is taken to bring him in!” 

Mycroft rose from his desk abruptly to pace before the window. The creeping shadows of late afternoon kept his expression hidden from the two men still seated. Neilson and Trenholm glanced at one another, knowing they had been dismissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to acknowledge and express a grateful Thank You to Ariane DeVere for the absolutely fantastic work she has done transcribing episodes of BBC Sherlock. It is from her work that I recovered the name of "Neilson" the CIA agent who hits Mrs. Hudson and who Sherlock consequently tosses out the window of 221b onto the dust bins more times than he can remember in "A Scandel in Belgravia".  
> Ariane DeVere's work can be found here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/36505.html Do check out her transcripts and comments; they are wonderful reading.


	17. Chapter 17

John drove as fast as was safe on the wet lanes that wound their tangled way east of Foxley. The silence drew out; both men were occupied with their own thoughts as the sodden countryside slid by steadily on either side of them.

It was about three quarters of an hour into their trip that they rounded a particularly sharp curve to be confronted with the sight of a black Mercedes parked, blocking a desolate intersection. Beside the vehicle, with their weapons drawn and pointed at them, were two men.

“Damn it! How the hell did they find us so soon?” John exclaimed, as he trod heavily on the brake. 

He looked at Sherlock and said urgently, “The fact we both aren’t dead right now means they want you alive, which means they’re CIA.” His tone softened but was no less urgent, “Sherlock, you’ll be fine. Just do exactly as I say, alright? I’ll get you through this.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice betrayed nothing.

The two agents maintained their steady aim with their weapons. The man positioned on the driver's side of Mercedes shouted, “Get out! And lemme see your hands!”

“Let me get out first, Sherlock, pretend to struggle with your seatbelt… anything, just don’t get out of the car until I tell you it’s safe.”

John opened his door slowly and stepped out from behind it, hands held up. _Good_ , he thought, _mist, rain, and soon darkness are in our favour_ … He faced their accosters.

“Throw us your weapon!” The taller agent shouted.

John responded, “I’m not armed!”

“Yeah, right. Then, you won’t mind if my buddy here checks, will you?”

“I’m not armed. You’ll see, I swear it.” John’s voice sounded nervous.

“He’s coming toward you now; move and I’ll shoot you!”

 _That’s right, c’mon over buddy… follow procedure…_ John was maintaining an internal monologue as the agent approached and began to search him. _That’s it… find the obvious one, under the arm…_

The agent pulled John’s pistol from his arm holster and raised it to show his colleague, “Got it, Bill.”

The moment the agent’s attention on him wavered, John brought two clenched fists down hard, hitting the side of the man’s neck, knocking him out cold. He collapsed and lay still, face down in the wet leaf mold.

His arms back in the air, John shouted, “Don’t shoot, I’m unarmed! I’m unarmed!” His voice sounded panic stricken. _…and you don’t want to be the subject of an inquiry into the shooting of an unarmed man in the British countryside, do you, Bill? Diplomatic immunity won't help you there...think about your pension… it’s really not worth it, is it…_

“You bastard! You crazy flipper! I’ll kill you!”


	18. Chapter 18

“No. Put the gun down. I’m turning myself over to you.” It was Sherlock’s low voice as he stepped from the passenger side of the car with his arms raised. 

“What the hell?! No! Sherlock! Get back!”

“John. It’s the only way...” 

“NO, IT ISN’T! Get back in the car, Sherlock! Damn it! Don’t do this!” John was desperate.

But Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him. He continued to walk deliberately away from John and toward Bill.

When Sherlock reached him, Bill, edgy and nervous, dragged Sherlock’s hands down roughly to land on the top of his head and thrust the barrel of his pistol against his ear. Sherlock, still not steady on his feet, half staggered from the impact.

It was then that John, with a furious hiss, pulled a second pistol from under his jacket, where it had been tucked into his belt, took aim and shot Bill’s weapon out of his hand. It was a perfect shot; his aim rock steady. He then strode, weapon still drawn, toward Sherlock and Bill, and while Bill was still clutching his hand in shock, John, with an enraged snarl, swung his pistol at Bill’s head and knocked him unconscious.

He then rounded on Sherlock with blazing eyes and a harsh voice, “That was the God-damned stupidest thing you could have done! What the hell were you thinking? I told you not to do anything!” 

Under the blast of John’s fury, Sherlock took several steps backward toward their vehicle. “But John, I…” 

Sherlock had no opportunity to continue for John lunged suddenly at him; knocking him off his balance. Sherlock gasped as his feet shot out from under him on the water-logged leaves that littered the road and he flailed his arms backward wildly, grasping with his long fingers for a purchase on the rain slicked metal of the car. But he needn’t have bothered. The impact and direction of John’s tackle was such that he was lifted up and splayed on his back on the bonnet, arms flung wide, coat flapping open and his legs spread. Coordination still poor, his head snapped back and would have made hard contact with the steel bonnet had it not been caught in the palm of John’s hand, where it was eased down and held firmly. The pistol, still in the grasp of John’s other hand, landed with a deafening slam beside Sherlock’s left ear. It was followed immediately by John’s mouth landing on his with no less force; hard, bruising and biting. Sherlock’s mouth fell open under the onslaught and stayed that way, held by John’s thumb against his jaw. 

The first shock of it over, Sherlock didn’t struggle. He submitted to John with a soft sound, closing his eyes and wilting limply, his hands reaching to hold John’s face to his. But John didn’t let up. If anything he increased his assault; pressing his knee between Sherlock’s thighs, pinning him to bonnet and using the leverage to deepen the kiss. He thrust his tongue past Sherlock’s teeth, scouring his mouth like a man starved. 

Moments passed, how many neither of the two was certain. It was only when Sherlock gave a faint moan, a plea for air as it turned out, that John came to his senses. “Oh God, Sherlock I’m sorr…!” But he was unable to finish. His apology was cut off abruptly by Sherlock, who, his breath back, ignored the attempted apology and pulled John’s mouth back down firmly onto his once more.

John resisted. “No, Sherlock! No! This can’t happen!” He repeated somewhat dazedly, “London, I’ve got to get you back to London. Just get you home.” He pulled a boneless Sherlock up and since he wasn’t moving of his own accord, pushed him; not in the direction of their vehicle but toward the Mercedes. Reaching it, he shoved Sherlock unceremoniously into the passenger seat and said, “Stay here, don’t move, please!” and shut the door.

He loped back to their car and, reversing it up the road, parked it in the nearest farm lane, well out of view. He then snapped the number plates off, shouldered his duffle and returned to the Mercedes and Sherlock. He tossed it all into the back seat, but not before he’d pulled rapstraps from the duffle with which to restrain the two agents. Seconds later they had been dragged, still unconscious, into the ditch and John was sliding into the driver’s seat of their vehicle beside Sherlock. 

John turned to look at Sherlock who hadn’t moved from where he had first stowed him; he was staring ahead bemusedly, his fingers gently touching his lips.

“Belt up, Sherlock,” John’s words were soft. And when Sherlock didn’t appear to hear him he half smiled and leaned over to draw the belt across Sherlock’s chest and click it into place.


	19. Chapter 19

John started the car and pulled out into the lane, heading eastward to London again. 

“John, I…” 

Sherlock began to speak, only to be cut off abruptly by John who glanced quickly across at him and said, “We should be safe now for as long as it takes to reach London. They won't have expected us to have been able to hijack one of their vehicles.”

When he got no response; Sherlock hadn’t moved, he only sighed slightly, John continued, “I’m still wondering how they found us; they must have had a car at every cross-road between Foxley and London to have intercepted us on this route. But for that, they’d have to have called out every resource in the country, which is impossible…” John’s brow furrowed. “Even if it is the case, then how... and why!?”

Sherlock roused himself from his study of the rain drops splashing on the windscreen to say quietly, “It does appear that way, John.” He didn’t sound surprised. 

John turned his head to look speculatively at Sherlock once more before concluding, “Something about this whole case just isn’t adding up… and it hasn’t from the start.” He frowned again before saying in an anything but friendly tone, “Regardless, when we get to London, your handler and I are going to have a little chat about your safety and wellbeing going forward, Sherlock.”

They drove steadily east. The night was well advanced by the time they left the empty country lanes behind them to join the flow traffic on one of the main routes leading into London. It was not far from the same spot where they had exited the city not 24 hours earlier, when John handed his mobile to Sherlock. “Phone your handler. Tell them I’m bringing you in. They’ll be provided with the meeting location shortly.” 

Sherlock didn’t comply immediately. He sighed before he reached slowly to accept the phone, “If you insist, John.” He squinted, his vision not completely normal yet, and pecked out a series of numbers on the screen with his elegant fingers. He put the phone to his ear and waited.

Someone on the other end of the line evidently picked up the call immediately for what John heard next was the scathing retort, “Of course it is I, you idiot! Unless you’ve taken to giving your number out to the wait-staff!” 

John’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. 

The party on the other end of the call was still speaking when Sherlock cut them off with a testy, “I’m hanging up now.” He huffed and dropped the phone distastefully onto the centre console. “He says he’ll be here shortly, John.” 

“That’s not what I…” Whatever he’d been going to say was lost as a blinding light lit up the night around them and the unmistakable hissing whine of a jet turbo engine could be heard from above, “Bloody hell, a helicopter now!?" John exclaimed, "What the…? Is the whole bloody country after us?” 

John didn’t wait for an answer. He said, “Hang on; I’m going to shake them loose,” and as the Mercedes shot forward with sudden speed, he muttered approvingly, “Thank God it’s a decent vehicle…”

The next few minutes made Sherlock’s head swim dizzily; they sped into oncoming lanes, (admittedly empty of traffic at that time of night), exited streets by way of turn-ins and raced under bridges and through riverside tunnels, their speed throwing streams of water up beside the windows. At last, when they drew to a stop and Sherlock opened his eyes cautiously, it was to find they were parked under a large, leafy tree in a residential neighbourhood with the car headlights out. All was dark and quiet.

John turned to Sherlock. “Alright?” he asked with concern. “Yes,” said Sherlock and then grinned weakly, “Quite alright, actually.”

John found himself grinning back and lightly touched Sherlock’s knee with a warm hand. For one breathless moment, he stared into Sherlock’s eyes, bright even in the dimness. Locked on John's gaze, Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something but before he could, John had turned his face away toward the window. All he said was, “We should go now.” 

The drive to a car park under a warehouse, back near the river was an uneventful one relative to the wild ride they’d just taken. John parked the car facing the entrance and picked up his mobile. Deliberately not looking at Sherlock, he hit redial on the last number called and waited. 

When his ring was answered, a smooth voice greeted him with a chillingly polite good day, followed by, “I won’t waste our time, Captain Watson. What are your terms?” The voice could have as easily been ordering from the dinner menu at Claridge’s as negotiating for the life of a valuable agent. 

“Elevate his surveillance status to Grade Three−Active. Or higher. From here on in.” 

There was what could only be described as a taken aback silence on the other end of the line. But it was only momentary; the remote drawl sounded again, “How very singular of you, Captain. Why, may I ask, should I?” 

“Because the newspapers would love to hear all about the attempted kidnapping and torture of an innocent British citizen from home soil by the CIA, in collusion with this country’s Secret Service. I’m sure you are familiar with the name Maher Arar?”

“You would hardly feature well in such a story yourself, Captain.”

John’s mouth twisted in bitter amusement. “Agreed. But as I see it, that makes me an all the more credible source to the Telegraph or the Times, doesn’t it? Now, is it a deal or not?”

The voice didn’t thaw one bit, but it said, “I agree to your terms. I will be there shortly to pick him up.”

John pocketed his mobile once more and stood motionless beside the car, staring at the entrance ramp, his face an unreadable mask. For once he didn’t issue a sharp rebuke to stay put when he heard the car’s passenger door click shut and he found Sherlock standing beside him. Sherlock gave him a pained glance before closing his own eyes and sucking in a frustrated lungful of air.

It was not a minute after that that a black sedan made its smooth and soundless way down the ramp in front of them and drew to a silent halt not far off, its headlights a blinding glare in their faces. Before either one of them could speak or move it was joined by second, and to John’s growing astonishment, a third, a fourth and a fifth. 

“Who the hell is your handler anyway, Sherlock!?”

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet. I tried to tell you not to call him,” Sherlock muttered and glared down at concrete surface of the garage.

A figure, indistinguishable in the glare, stepped from one of the vehicles and a now familiar voice said, “Come along, baby brother. Mommy is beside herself on your account and father has locked himself in the billiards room and you know how that upsets the household…”

There was a pregnant silence before John turned and spluttered, “Mommy?! Who’s mommy, Sherlock? And this is your brother?!”

When Sherlock pressed his lips together in mutinous silence, Mycroft stepped into the circle of light with them and remarked, “Indeed, yes. Mother and brother, Sherlock has both.” He looked John up and down. “You ran us quite a chase, Captain.” He added speculatively, “You no longer have a limp, I detect. How interesting...” 

John ignored this. He asked, appalled, “What kind of a brother are you?! Sherlock was damn near killed. Or worse!”

Mycroft lifted his chin in annoyance at this accusation. “I admit that events did not unfold quite as I intended,” his speculative gaze swept over John once more. “I was trying to teach my little brother a lesson. He cannot always rely upon me to rescue him from his ill-advised adventures. He needs to become more circumspect in his behaviour.” He sniffed and drew himself up to his full height, “I can see I have failed spectacularly in this latest endeavour, perhaps not surprisingly.”

John’s posture was just as rigid as Mycroft’s. He said, undeterred, “Well, regardless of who you are, you and I have a deal. My conditions stand.”

“Certainly, Captain Watson. And I trust in turn that I may rely upon you to keep your end of the bargain.” Mycroft’s tone was officious, but he took a small step backward when he saw the murderous expression on John’s face and his balled fists in response to the provocation.

But John said nothing further. He merely nodded stiffly and turned abruptly to the Mercedes. 

It was then that, for the first time since Mycroft’s arrival, Sherlock moved; he extended his arm jerkily and made an unbalanced lurch toward John. His expression crumbled and he choked, “John, don’t go, please, John!”

“Yes, Sherlock! Your safety is what matters. It’s the only thing that can matter.” 

“No! I don’t want that, John! I want, I want… you! Not safety, not security, not… not… this! I want you; us, John!”

John stared at him, stunned.

Sherlock blinked and opened his mouth again. No more sound came out, but his lips began to quiver. He dropped his eyes to stare at the floor in front of John’s feet. As John watched in dismay, a single tear trailed down his cheek to his chin where it dripped onto his coat lapel. 

“My God!” John stared, shocked. “No! Sherlock! How could you!? I’m nothing. I’m no one. I have no future! Please no, Sherlock!”

“It’s too late, John.” Sherlock looked up, his eyes desperately sad. 

“No, it isn’t! What you are feeling, your emotions, they are not real, Sherlock. It’s just the after-effects of the benzodiazepine. It has to be.”

At this Sherlock’s expression shuttered closed. He drew himself up with an indrawn breath before looking away and agreeing quietly, “Yes, of course. I’m sure you’re right, John.”

An achingly poignant silence followed until it was broken by Mycroft's cool voice. “Quite right. In any case Sherlock, I’ve accepted a job on your behalf; MI6 needs you in Eastern Europe...” Seeing John’s horrified expression, Mycroft paused to remark with some condescension, “It’s perfectly safe, I’m told.”

But John was already moving, not toward the car, but back toward Sherlock; his hand involuntary reaching to grasp Sherlock’s lax one. Powerful emotions chased themselves across his face in rapid succession; angst, confusion, protectiveness… love.

When Sherlock’s fingers curled tightly around his own, he sighed and the tension drained from his body. With both arms now, he drew Sherlock close and said, “No, no. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m very sorry. I'm wrong about all that. I’m just very surprised… shocked in fact. And I’m not handling it very well.”

“No, you aren’t, John.” Sherlock mumbled against his shoulder.

For the first time in a very long time, John laughed; a real laugh, a soft, warm chuckle that vibrated through his chest and caused the man he was holding to sag in relief. 

“Is it okay then, John? Is it alright?”

“Yes. It’s more than just alright. It’s fantastic. I feel the same, Sherlock.” John drew back and pulled Sherlock’s mouth down to his for a tender kiss. “…I feel exactly the same way that you do.”

Mycroft raised his eyes briefly ceiling ward and breathed out slowly, “I can see I am to disappoint MI6 unless... both of you perhaps…?” he trailed off hopefully. John, holding Sherlock’s head against his shoulder looked across at him and said, “I’m afraid not. I’m retired. I have a home life to attend to now and it’s going to keep me very busy. For the rest of my life, in fact.”

Sherlock snuffled against his neck in what seemed like agreement. 

Mycroft surveyed the two of them for a moment longer before sighing resignedly, “Well, I’ll be off then, duty calls. Do leave the car though, please. Our civil service budgets aren’t what they once were.” 

But he didn’t sound displeased.


End file.
